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Alexandra Seiler
the clouds finally came.
my father is in the kitchen,
on the phone
with his father, scrawling notes
in tiny penciled letters beneath
my grocery list—
words like pancreatic
and oncologist
and malignant.
his speech is slow, his voice
uneven,
a cello thrown suddenly
out of tune—a broken string.
through the screen door,
a car alarm sounds
a distress call. the coral-orange flowers
in the hanging basket bow their heads
in the heat. in the backyard, the willow
continues weeping.
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